Fists
by misprint
Summary: Late nights. Whiskey. Lonliness. A brief encounter between two silhouettes in an alley. A long walk home. Slash, one shot.


**Fists**

The first time Jack and Spot kissed, it was more about fists than it was about love.

It had taken Jack by surprise. One moment, he had been up against the wall, upper arms aching in want of Spot's fingers, heart pounding in his throat. Spot had been less than a foot way, looking about as lost and confused and angry as a person could be. And the next moment had been a rough blur of instances. Between each harsh intake of breath, there was Spot's rough palms against his face, their foreheads bumping, Jack flinching, their mouths catching and somehow, somehow, somehow holding.

"_So tell me this..." Spot said after his sixth shot of whiskey. Jack was staring out at the sunset, bottle dangling listlessly in his fingers, a subtle smile brushing at the corner of his lips. "You...and Sarah..."_

"_I ain't talkin' to you about Sarah!" Jack grinned, aiming a friendly shot at Spot's shoulder. "I'm bein' gentlemanlike about her."_

"_That's just an easy way of sayin' you ain't gotten her goods yet, right?" Spot retorted, raising his eyebrows. _

Somewhere in between that brief touch, that fumble of teenage boys and desperate hands, Jack had found his fingers curling into the well worn folds of Spot's shirt, found himself inexplicably kissing back. Spot's mouth was warm and tasted of whiskey, he could feel the rasp of his stubble along his chin and against the soft of his cheek. He felt Spot's knuckles scrape clumsily down his jaw line, felt the way his shoulders hunched around his neck, tasted cigarettes as plain as though there was one hanging from his lip. The familiar taste made his stomach ache. He had never kissed a smoker before.

The next second had been fast. Jack's hands had slammed against Spot's shoulders, he let out a brief, low cry, the silhouette of their bodies divided roughly in the shadows of the alleyway. Underneath the harsh breath, the rustle of fabric, the scrape of their shoes against the cobblestone, there was a silence so deep and so still that it could suffocate.

"_You shut your mouth," Jack cautioned him through badly muffled laughter, shaking the tip of his bottle at him sternly. "You may be...fuckin'...king of Brooklyn but ain't no one talks 'bout my girl like that, hear?"_

"_Yer girl," Spot replied derisively. "Marry her, why don'tcha?"_

_Jack laughed, but the humour seemed to have gone out of it. "Maybe I will," he retorted. "I ain't got no one else to marry. And sure as hell no one ain't primed to marry me either."_

"_Don't blame 'um," Spot raised his eyebrows. "I wouldn't." _

"_It's mutual," Jack assured him. Spot's eyes lingered on the curve of his friend's smile. _

"Jack..." Spot said, his voice low and tinged with desperation. Jack was shaking, shaking so bad he could barely control it. He pressed his palms against the brick behind him and let out a breath, his heart pounding so loud in his chest, he could swear they could hear it all the way off in Santa Fe. Spot's hands found their way to his shoulder, the curve of his neck, the flat of his chest. He could only see in rough silhouettes, the light of the street lamps did not reach through the thickness of the alley.

"Fuck off," Jack mumbled, shrugging him off, shoving him away.

"Jack, it's okay..." Spot promised, pushing forwards, pushing him hard against the brick. "Don't even..."

"I said _fuck off,_" Jack yelled. As though it was a knee jerk action, his arm twisted back, and he hit Spot hard across the mouth, listening to the sickening slap of skin on skin echo up the lane.

There was a moment of silence as Spot's slim figure caved over, as his hand flew up to his lips, as a short cry was strangled in his throat. Jack pushed himself off of the wall, knees weak beneath him, the blood pounding strangely hard in all the narrow parts of his body - his fingertips, his lips, the backs of his knees. Spot choked, his shoulders hitching upwards as he took a deep breath.

"Spot," Jack began, but he was cut off as Spot suddenly wrenched himself upwards again and slammed his fist as hard as he could against the side of his friend's head. Jack's cry was lost in the darkness of the night.

"'_Cuz you know what they say about Brooklyners," Jack said to Spot, head tilted downwards, peering up at his companion through the rough fringe of his bangs. His smile was sideways, warm with liquor. Spot raised his eyebrows ._

"_You know," Jack had pressed, the glint of canines peeking through his lips. "Brooklyners and their girlfriends?"_

"_Prolly a lot better than what we say about you East Siders this side of the bridge," Spot replied, lifting his whiskey bottle in a mocking toast. _

Jack had been in a lot of fights before. But never with Spot.

His mind could only grasp at moments, the slide of Spot's fist against his jaw, the deep ache of a fist buried in his stomach, the sharp sting of his knuckles splitting open and bleeding against his skin, against Spot's skin, against the cool night air. There were no wild swings or dramatic moments, just the struggle of two thin bodies against one another, the break of gasps on their mouths, the swell of their shoulders as they pushed and pulled and fought out the deep well of something inside the both of them.

"The hell's the matter with you," Spot grunted as he pushed Jack hard against the brick wall of the alleyway. His head snapped back and scraped roughly against the clay, sparks flashing off behind his eyes like fireworks.

"With _me_?" He spat, struggling against his friend. "What's the matter with _you_? You god damn..."

Spot's eyes flashed in the darkness as Jack paused and felt his chest rise and fall under Spot's hands. "God damn pansy."

"Fuckin' _kid,_" Spot cut him off, hitting him hard enough to break bone.

"_Ahhh...shit." Jack groaned, tossing the whiskey bottle off to the side. They heard the clink of it hitting the pavement, the grating noise of it slowly rolling away. "I can't fuckin'...Jesus. Where are we?"_

"_Near the docks," Spot replied. Whenever he was drunk, his voice tended to become deeper and quieter, the edge in his manner more pronounced, his smirk sharper than ever. "Five bucks says Cowboy can't find his way home."_

"_Bum odds," Jack grinned. _

After what seemed like an eternity, Jack could not clench his fist any longer.

He weakly shoved Spot away, feeling his breath catch ragged in his throat, feeling his knuckles buzz painfully where they had split open. Spot's fingers were still clenched around his collar and with a quick, angry movement, he threw him down on to the cobblestone. Jack's body folded as he hit the ground, and he could taste blood in the back of his throat.

"See here, Jack," Spot hissed, breathing hard. Jack opened his eyes. Spot's face was inches away from his own, he could feel the heat of his breath. It made him ache. "No one calls me a pansy, understood?"

Jack's heart was pounding in the root of his tongue, he could feel it all the way along his throat, all throughout his body. Spot's eyes were wet in the dim light, and he sounded as though he was choking, as though something had it's fingers wrapped tight around his throat. "You understand that _Cowboy_? I been taking a lot a shit all my life and the last person I'm gonna take it from is a fuckin' kid like you, see?"

Through the helpless clench of Spot's fingers, through the tilt of Jack's head, through the way Spot's eyes were green and blue and grey all at the same time, they were kissing again.

"_C'mon," Spot said, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly, trying to rid himself of the honey thick buzz that had stolen across his body. "I know a short cut."_

"_To Manhattan?" Jack asked, numbly reaching backwards and palming his signature cowboy hat onto his head._

"_No, to Katmandu," Spot rolled his eyes. He did a double take, before grabbing Jack drunkenly at the elbow and motioning towards the yawning entrance of a dark alleyway. "Come on. This'll take us to the heights, then onto the bridge." _

Jack could not tell how long he and Spot kissed. Through the deepness of his anger, his need, his confusion, he felt a slow pull through his mouth, felt a current wherever he and Spot touched. Kissing Spot was unlike kissing anyone else. The blunt edges of his teeth often scraped against his lips, and his jagged fingernails dug into the tender parts of Jack's flesh, making him let out a clenched sigh and grit his teeth together. But there was also warmth in the kiss, a deepness, an urgency that made something inside Jack harden with need. He could feel Spot's hands fumbling down towards the waist of his pants, pushing past the hem, making his skin buzz as he worked his way downwards...

"Jesus!" Jack breathed, his eyes snapping open. He pushed himself upwards, hands against Spot's shoulders, pushing the boy off of him and onto the cobblestone beside him. Spot's fingers still lingered around the waist of his pants, his eyes were still deep and intent on Jack's, lips still wet from their kiss.

"I..." Jack found himself murmuring, words stuck in his throat and coming up in unintelligible fragments. "I...I have to..." Something in Spot's eyes seemed to flash, and a darkness sprung up behind them. His fingers tightened against the fabric, the muscles along his arm seemed to tense, as though lowered defenses were suddenly being raised. "Kloppman's probably...I should..."

"Get out," Spot told him.

Jack staggered to his feet, stumbling over his own unsure footing and still mumbling under his breath. Spot withdrew his fingers fast, as though they had been burned, and viciously wiped some of the blood off his face with the back of his hand as Jack tried to regain his footing through his drunkenness.

"I said fucking get out!" Spot yelled, as Jack pushed himself to his feet, stumbling backwards. "You better fucking run, Kelly."

Jack gave him one long, last searching look that left Spot trembling down to his bones.

"Go," he said, his voice cracking. "Run. I don't wanna fucking see your face here, understood?"

He took a breath inwards, but something caught in his throat, and he had little more to say. Jack glanced at him, eyes deep and dark with regret, before turning and stumbling as fast as he could towards the mouth of the alley, and disappearing 'round the corner.

"_Sarah ain't given up her goods," Jack said suddenly. Spot, still kicking at the empty whiskey bottle near his feet, looked over at his friend. Through the darkness he could only make out his silhouette, suddenly small under the cowboy hat, eyes glimmering in the darkness. "I don't want 'um anyways."_

_As if by a sudden agreement, both boys came to a halt. Spot angled his shoulders towards his friend, who was staring at the ground, hands stuffed in his pocket._

"_You best be telling Mouth that," Spot said lightly, despite the heavy, heavy darkness forming in his chest. "Take a load off his mind I'm sure."_

"_Damn them," Jack said simply, glancing over at his friend. "I don't want none."_

_Spot's whole frame seemed to teeter on the edge of something, before he carefully reached over and took Jack's upper arms in his hands, rubbing his thumbs against the skin through the fabric, letting his eyes trail along the curve of his neck. Their eyes met, and something quick, something secret and dangerous seemed to shiver in the air between them. _

_The first time Jack and Spot kissed, it was more about fists than it was about love._

_But that time would not be the last._

-0-

Firstly, I want to thank both The Second Batgirl and Gothic Author for beta-ing this for me. Without them, you would probably want to beat me for my repeated transgressions on the holy domain of spelling, and my obvious overindulgence of purple prose. Maybe you still want to beat me.

But please don't.


End file.
